


The Relative Importance Of Things

by chasethatbluesky



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crime, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fred being a good Dad, Friendship, Gen, Home With The Thursdays, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Poor old Morse, Protectiveness, Surprise twist ahoy!, Thursday Father-Figure, Win being a good Mum, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasethatbluesky/pseuds/chasethatbluesky
Summary: Needing his bagman to attend to an urgent call with him late one evening, Thursday is instantly worried when neither he nor the station can reach Morse over the telephone. Concerned that the recently-ill constable has taken a turn, or worse, is lying unconscious having been “seen to” by the very gang he'd just helped to capture, Thursday hot-foots it over to Morse's bedsit, only to inadvertently stumble upon the real reason for Morse's silence...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Endeavour fic! Love this show. Hope you enjoy :)

“Here you go, Fred. Get your feet in there while it's still hot.”

“Aww thanks, pet,” Fred coo'd appreciatively as Win set down a large bowl at his feet, watching her place the frothy, steaming offering onto a faded towel that had been laid out over the well-worn lounge carpet before offering her his discarded socks with a small smile. After two long days – and nights – on his pins with practically no let-up, the soles of his feet felt almost raw.

“Keep them in for as long as you can,” advised Win. “I'll make you a cup of tea and warm some of the left-over stew up on the stove. Shouldn't take a minute.” She placed a warm hand on her husband's shoulder, which Fred covered and squeezed briefly with one of his own, before disappearing to attend to things in the kitchen.

Finding himself at rest for the first time in what felt like an age, Fred sank down into his favourite chair and let out a long, tired sigh, closing his heavy eyes as he let his head loll back, nestling the base of his skull in the familiar hollow between the back of his chair and the wall behind him. He listened idly to Win's movements in the next room, hearing the _flick_ of the stove ignitor and his wife's delicate footfalls as she walked to and from the fridge. Through the fog of his fatigue Fred also sent invisible feelers out across the rest of the house, listening for the tell-tale signs of his children's presence. Though it was well after 11pm, he could hear the soft padded movements of Joan as she settled back down, knowing that she'd stirred after his return home. Sam, meanwhile, was out for the count as usual, his tomblike silence equally as comforting.

_All was as it should be._

Returning from the kitchen with the promised cup of tea after a few minutes, Win placed the cup and saucer on a small table beside Fred upon seeing that he was dozing, merely offering a small squeeze to his forearm before retreating out the room without saying a word.

“Cheers, love,” Fred murmured from the corner of his mouth with another small sigh.

Fifteen minutes later, having revived somewhat from the combined effects of the soaking bowl and Win's hearty stew, Fred was sat up in his chair talking softly to his wife, who'd taken to perching on the sofa while she listened. Fred puffed methodically on the new pipe he'd just lit, sending up a small series of white clouds to the lounge's stippled ceiling like coded smoke-signals, giving away just a few choice morsels as to what he and the rest of the station had been dealing with over the past couple of days.

“I tell you, Win,” he said wearily, his expression flat, “these so-called 'gangsters' of today are getting heirs above their station. Most of them now are nothing but young kids with heads full of fantasies from the pictures. They think that waving a gun about will get them everything they want in life. They're too young, and too _stupid_ , to know that it's not what they've got packing in their trouser pockets that sets the men from the boys...”

“Are these lads originally from this area, then?” Win asked cautiously, her delicate face marred a little with concern. She and the rest of the county had heard a little of what had been happening on the wireless, though the details had been predictably very thin on the ground.

Fred looked over and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “No, pet, thank god. They drove out this way from the West End after their 'base of operations' was raided, making out as if they were on some last-man dash for the border between somewhere and nowhere before scattering to the four winds in our backyard. Brought a fair number of the Met out with them too, as far as I could tell. That's why it took so long to round all the buggers up – 'too many cooks'...”

Win nodded in understanding. “You must have missed the help of your young Morse, then,” she added. “He seems like he's got a level head.”

“That he has, pet,” Fred returned. He'd been without Morse for the best part of a week, after the lad had contracted a nasty infection from a wound sustained on duty – _another to add to the collection_ , Fred mused dryly. He knew however that Morse had been champing-at-the-bit to be allowed to return to active duty once the situation with the fleeing mobsters had arisen, though his request had been flatly denied by Bright. Fred had tried to keep the DC away from the action as much as possible, knowing that the rather down-and-dirty task of rounding up the London hooligans required a simpler, 'rougher' hand, only calling upon the bed-ridden Morse once to ask him to help with identifying the code used by the villains over their short-wave radios.

“Does he even know what's been going on?” Win asked.

“Oh yeah,” said Fred with an almost roll of his eyes. “It's a job to stop him. Always got his finger on the pulse, has Morse.”

In the hallway the phone suddenly began to emit it's weak, shrill ring, prompting Win to rise and quickly attend to it. Fred heard her answer in a quiet voice, so as to not disturb the kids upstairs. “Yes? Oh, hullo Sergeant. Yes, he's home now. Hang on a tick...”

Win then returned to the lounge doorway and looked forlornly at Fred. “It's Sergeant Jakes, love, calling from the station. Sais it's urgent.”

“Righto,” returned Fred. He leaned forward as he reluctantly pulled his pulsing feet from their warm, watery cocoon, quickly wiping away a small build-up of foot-salt suds with a second towel that Win offered over before rising from his chair, making his way out to the hall and over to the phone-stand in a few long, painful strides.

“Sergeant?” he half-gruffed after taking up the receiver, waiting silently as Jakes swiftly got him up to speed. “Where was it found? Yep, I know it… No, Sergeant, you're already on your third straight shift, as are the others. You'd better give Morse a ri-- What? How long ago?”

Win stirred a little in the kitchen at the change in Fred's tone.

“Right,” Fred issued darkly. “Let me get onto it. If I can't get hold of him I'll go straight round myself... No, no need to issue back-up yet.”

Fred immediately pressed the disconnect button on the telephone cradle without another word to Jakes and asked the operator to put him through to Morse's home number. After almost a minute of listening to unanswered pips, the operator informed Fred that the call could not be connected at this time.

Fred returned the phone's receiver to it's cradle and turned round to face Win, who'd left her ministrations in the kitchen and returned once more to his side, taking gentle hold of her arms in his hands. “Sorry, pet, I've gotta nip back out for a bit. Don't wait up for me any longer, get yourself off to bed.”

“Everything alright, Fred?” Win asked cautiously.

“A body's been reported found, is all,” said Fred reassuringly, though his gentle assertion didn't reach his features.

“What about Morse?” Win said, her growing concern showing in her dark eyes. “Can't you reach him? I thought he was off sick?”

“He is, _technically_ , but he's also the only officer in the station who's had any rest in the last forty-eight hours. He was put back on temporary call this afternoon as a last resort, just in case.”

“Perhaps he's not picking up the phone because he's still ill in bed,” mused Win.

The thought had crossed Fred's mind, along with the even less palatable possibility that the bloody Richards gang had somehow gotten wind of Morse's crucial role in cracking their radio communication scam and had subsequently ordered an associate to pay the stricken constable 'a visit'. Short of being sparked out in bed or unconscious on the floor of his tiny bedsit, Fred knew that the young constable wouldn't ignore a call from the station if his life depended on it.

“The lad knows better than to miss a call when on duty,” Fred eventually asserted with a somewhat stony expression, following Win upstairs to their bedroom so that he could quickly fix himself with a welcome change of clothes before kissing her goodnight and tiptoeing back downstairs, heading once more out into the night after reluctantly cramming his swollen feet back inside his shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Needing his bagman to attend to an urgent call with him late one evening, Thursday is instantly worried when neither he nor the station can reach Morse over the telephone. Concerned that the recently-ill constable has taken a turn, or worse, is lying unconscious having been “seen to” by the very gang he'd just helped to capture, Thursday hot-foots it over to Morse's bedsit, only to inadvertently stumble upon the real reason for Morse's silence...

Fred found the roads were still deathly quiet as he made his way round to Morse's part of town, guessing that the recent roadblocks that had been put in place to halt the advance of the gang members were still partially in effect. Whilst not begrudging the possibility that Morse needed his help, he secretly knew he'd been tempting fate by taking the easy option of bringing the jag he'd signed out straight home in lieu of accepting a lift back from the station from one of the uniforms, sighing heavily in the face of his lot as he found himself poring once more over the question of the constable's own fate. What could possibly be wrong with the lad, he wondered, save for the most grievous of circumstances he'd already worried himself with? Was he just too ill to answer, or had something more sinister occurred? Given Morse's track-record of things, Fred knew grimly that either explanation warranted further investigation at this point.

Pulling up on the far side of the road directly opposite Morse's place, Fred killed the lights and turned off the engine. He looked out to the dark area where he knew Morse's bedsit to be, spotting immediately that there was some sort of light on in the basement dwelling from the muted glow that gently lit the thin veil of mist above where the window resided. Feeling an unusual energy in the air, Fred exited his car quickly and quietly, keeping one hand firmly around the old Army service revolver that was reassuringly resting in the pocket of his great coat as he made his way towards the building, flitting his eyes between the shadows and the road on the lookout for any signs of trouble.

As he neared the single flight of stone steps which led down to the dingy flat, Fred quickly picked up the unmistakable strains of operatic music emanating from within – a factor which, despite its seeming innocuousness, did little to allay his nerves. He knew Morse played his records almost constantly whilst at home, and had never known him to miss hearing the telephone before, two details which gave him even more cause to believe that the younger man was in some sort of trouble. The fact that the music was also playing at some considerable volume immediately conjured a number of undesirable scenarios in Fred's mind, reminding him grimly of what the Gestapo were known to have done during the war to hide the screams of their victims. Had the young constable already tried to call for help, only to have his cries missed by neighbours or passers-by, his pleas going sadly unanswered? Or, Fred countered, was Morse simply taking the advice he himself had once given the younger man as a means to blot out a dark memory, playing his music to soothe his soul?

Reaching the front door, Fred tested the handle, finding the lock un-resoundingly secure but nonetheless intact, which was something at least. Unwilling to give any assailants residing within wind of his arrival, he stepped lightly over to the window and peered round the frame to look inside as far as he dare without giving his presence away, seeing nothing but Morse's meagre bookshelf running along the side wall and the aforementioned record player, both of which were “decorated” with half-empty bottles of Scotch. He then caught a glimpse of the constable's seemingly operational telephone, which sat passively under a small desk lamp at the end of a decidedly off-kilter shelf. The rather untidy nature of the place was nothing new to Fred's eyes, but that didn't mean all was necessarily well within.

Returning to the door, Fred knew there was nothing for it but to bring his hand up to give a door a small knock. “Morse?” he tried softly, listening out for a reply that didn't come. “Morse!” he tried again, a little louder, feeling his hackles raise up further and further with each passing second in time with the soaring music as once again his call remained unanswered. Just as he was about to draw back and connect his shoulder with wood and _break_ the bloody door down, he finally heard a distant voice call out over a blaring passage of strings – a voice that appeared distinctly _female_ in origin.

“ _Oh_ , Morse— _please_...”

Frozen mid-shunt, Fred frowned as he computed the sound, his overtired brain needing a moment to grasp what soon became _abundantly_ clear.

_Morse wasn't alone after all._

Feeling a range of competing emotions wash over him, from relief to barely-restrained _anger_ , Fred dropped his head and let out the large breath he'd been unconsciously holding in anticipation, taking his hand finally away from the pistol in his pocket. Of all the scenarios he'd fretted over whilst coming out to check on his bagman, the fact that he'd apparently stumbled upon the young man in the midst of “entertaining” a lady really did take the biscuit.

“You do pick your moments, son,” Fred grumbled humourlessly under his breath as he hovered uncomfortably outside the front door, feeling a brief wave of embarrassment similar to that one time he'd come home unexpectedly during the middle of the day to find Sam passionately kissing his then-girlfriend in the lounge.

Reluctantly confirming his suspicions on the situation with a second, more _comprehensive_ glance through the lone bedsit window, subsequently pulling his head back with a repugnant grimace after catching an unwanted glimpse of Morse and his female companion making _vigorous_ love on the small bed in a shadowy corner of the dingy room, all to the cranked up strains of what appeared to be a highly emotive aria of some kind, Fred felt his already shortened fuse _fizzle_ down almost to its imaginary base. He wondered now if Morse had purposely ignored the telephone calls from both himself and the station, or if he'd simply not heard the device's ring over the arching music that was serenading his “conquest”?!

 _You better thank your stars its not Chief Superintendent Bright that's found you like this_ , Fred thought blithely as a stream of intermittent moans from both occupants and a steady, rhythmic _squeak_ of Morse's bed practically _assaulted_ his ears now that he was better attuned to the situation, feeling the sudden urge to rumble the young _toe-rag_ and haul the constable off to their next murder scene without so much as a by-your-leave. _It would teach the lad a very valuable lesson_ , he thought churlishly, knowing that the humiliation of such a situation was almost a right-of-passage for a young enlisted man. Though it certainly wasn't the first time he'd ever inadvertently encountered a fellow serviceman with 'his leg over' whilst on supposedly on duty, it was the first time Fred had ever faced the situation with his famously sensitive bagman. Honestly – _only_ Morse could get him into such a worried state with a simple unanswered telephone call, only to go on and unwittingly reveal, in the most embarrassing way possible for _both_ of them, that, far from being rendered inactive, he was very much _alive_ and, well, if not _well_ , at least _functional_.

However, instead of simply going ahead with his first instinct to break the door away from its hinges and drag Morse unceremoniously out on his ear, Fred found himself strangely compelled, despite his aching weariness, to think carefully for a moment about what he should do. In all seriousness, he knew exactly what would happen if he barged in there now, all-guns-blazing. The skittish lad would immediately jump up like a scalded cat, all awkward, gangly limbs flailing, and no-doubt do himself an injury (or at least pop his recently-accrued stitches), not to mention endanger the safety of the poor young lady he was currently “with”. In addition, he would likely never shake the abject shame – nor indeed the new shade of crimson – he'd knowingly adopt once Fred had scrapped him off the ceiling. _No_ , Fred realised with a heavy, reluctant sigh – it was simply better, for _all_ concerned, if he waited until the nearing 'moment' had passed before calling his man to action.

After all, the dead body they'd been called to wasn't going anywhere fast.

Despite his good intentions, though, Fred's resolve soon began to crumble as he waited for the pair to _finish_ , with time seemingly slowing down to an almost excruciating crawl in the bitterly tinged air of the winter's night. Hating the fact he was grossly invading the privacy of his DC, Fred turned on his heel and made to retreat back up the stairs, thinking that he could just as easily wait for the constable in the car. However, between the somewhat pressing nature of the call-out, coupled with the uncomfortable realisation that Morse in all likelihood really didn't know he was needed elsewhere, Fred found himself reluctantly glued to the spot. _Besides_ , he thought practically, _if he did return back to his car across the street, how would he know when the 'coast was clear' to winkle the man out?_

Resigned to his enforced _sentry-duty_ – a thankless task for which he'd soon be seeking adequate recompense for when he was next in the pub with Morse – Fred walked over to the bottom of the stairs and took a seat, mercifully relieving the pressure on his still-swollen feet. No matter how tired he might be, he just couldn't bring himself to interrupt the lad, not when it was so audibly clear that the _exercise_ was doing him some much needed good. Though the issue of Morse's stitches still remained a mild concern, as it didn't seem to be slowing the man down considerably Fred guessed that Morse was willingly taking any extra pain on the chin.

With nothing else to do, Fred looked up at the night sky, making out a few dim stars though the wintery haze. This was not how he'd expected, nor indeed hoped, his evening would go. He was supposed to be tucked up in bed next to his Win, not sitting out in the freezing cold reluctantly listening to his bagman getting his end away. Still, he remembered back to _dark ages_ when he'd been young, when moments of joy amidst the horrors of conflict were preciously few and far between. Morse had certainly seen his own fair share of horrors in the past couple of years, though Fred knew many of the young man's injuries had caused tremendous emotional pain as well as physical. Case in point was his most recent incident, when he'd gotten almost _speared_ by a sharp piece of metal after slipping on a rooftop whilst chasing a serial kidnapper. The man escaped capture for a further 24 hours after slipping Morse's grasp, almost drowning his fifth victim, a young girl, before the rest of the department caught up with him. Ending up in the same ward, Morse had subsequently taken the little girl's troubled plight on as if it were his own, even apologising to the parents from his hospital bed for his failure to stop the man sooner. Fred had become secretly rather worried that the incident would go on to haunt the younger man, though he'd stopped short of voicing his fear to the recuperating constable for fear that he'd somehow put the very idea in the man's head.

Returning his mind to his current uncomfortable _quandary_ , Fred strained his ear briefly to see if his uncalled-for ordeal might be at an end, only to find himself confronted by the continuing throes of two clearly invested participants. _Surely they'll be finished soon_ , he thought tiredly, ignoring the _old_ voice at the back of his head which decried the “vigours of youth”. On a normal day he'd never begrudge Morse seeking out the companionship of a woman, quite the opposite in fact. He and Win were both of the opinion that the lad needed a little glimmer of happiness in his life, though Fred doubted his wife would overly approve of Morse carrying on and 'sowing his wild oats' in quite such a _bohemian_ fashion. Knowing the precious little he did of Morse's background, Fred suspected that the lad had likely experienced quite a repressed upbringing, coming from a household where at least one of his parents had been a quaker. He sometimes wondered if the constable would ever settle down, find himself a nice young woman and start a family of his own – create the type of home which he so clearly missed.

After what felt like a few more _depressingly_ long minutes, Fred finally caught wind that Morse and his partner were at last _satisfied_ when he heard a long groan followed by a gradual cessation of mattress-spring activity. Shivering a little from the chill of the stones he was sitting on as he rose achingly to his feet, becoming mindful of the fact that the record which was still playing loudly on the turntable was soon to finish as he straightened his coat, Fred thought that now was as good a time as any to make his presence known.

“Morse?” he duly bellowed, rapping his fist sharply against the door several times, trying not to let his private amusement outshine his professional annoyance at the situation in his voice. “Oi, Morse! Didn't they teach you how to answer the bloody phone at County?”

“Sir?!” came a startled and clearly _spent_ voice from the far reaches of the room beyond the closed door.

“Don't you 'sir' me!” Fred continued with a practised bluster, no longer feeling much inclined to give the man a chance to recover himself. “You're on call tonight. Get yourself up now!”

A hastened series of scuffled noises occurred immediately after the issued order, eventually culminating in the bedsit door being pulling back a fraction to reveal a dishevelled and barely-clothed Morse. Looking upon the younger man's trademark deer-in-headlights, butter-wouldn't-melt expression, Fred countered the surprised greeting with his own famous _withered_ stare, giving the sod cause to tread carefully.

“Sir! I—I didn't hear the phone ring?” Morse offered sheepishly, barely looking Fred in the eye, awkwardly pulling down the hem of the thin white vest he'd just pulled on the wrong way in an effort to try and cover the fact that he was standing in front of his DI in not much more than his pyjama bottoms.

“It's a wonder you can hear anything at all with that music blaring,” Fred retorted loudly over the dying sounds of the opera, wilfully ignoring for the moment the glaringly obvious physical signs that his DC had just finished _coitus_ – the thin sheen of sweat on his fair skin, his blown pupils, the fact that his untamed auburn hair was even more wild than usual and his visible shortness of breath – in favour of sparing Morse's blushes so that he could get the man out of the door in good time. “We're needed out at Woodstock,” he said flatly, his face giving nothing away. “A body's been found. Could use your help if you're feeling up to it.”

Clearly still struggling to come down from his recent high, Morse nodded but then hovered awkwardly by the door, running a familiar finger around the non-existent collar of his vest as he hesitated over what he should do next, trying hard to resist the urge to look towards the other person in the room over his shoulder.

“I suggest you get some clothes on and meet me up at the car,” Fred eventually obliged, catching a brief glimpse of the young woman still in Morse's bed through the crack in the door-frame as he turned and headed back up the stairs without another word, leaving Morse to stew in his indecision.

Not knowing if his superior had clocked his _companion_ , Morse stood shivering in the open doorway for a few long moments before retreating back inside. To his credit, he didn't keep his DI waiting long, emerging fully-dressed and a far more composed after only a couple of minutes, crossing over to the waiting black jaguar and claiming the vacant passenger seat without a fuss.

“Ready to go?” Fred posed innocuously, watching as Morse gingerly fixed the car belt across his injured midsection.

“Yes, sir. Apologies for keeping you waiting,” Morse offered somewhat chastely, swallowing hard to dismiss the early pangs of anxiety that were now beginning to creep up on him.

“Not to worry, you can make it up to me tomorrow,” replied Fred evenly as he turned the ignition key, not giving his bagman a second glance as he pulled away from the curb. Whether he chose to make the ride difficult for Morse or not, Fred knew that the imminent journey to the other side of the county was likely going to be a rather fraught affair for the nervous man sitting next to him.

_Serves him bloody right._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Needing his bagman to attend to an urgent call with him late one evening, Thursday is instantly worried when neither he nor the station can reach Morse over the telephone. Concerned that the recently-ill constable has taken a turn, or worse, is lying unconscious having been “seen to” by the very gang he'd just helped to capture, Thursday hot-foots it over to Morse's bedsit, only to inadvertently stumble upon the real reason for Morse's silence...

The jaguar glided like a wrath through the darkened streets of suburban Oxford, its shiny black surface picking up the harsh streams of light bearing down from the street lamps above as well as the warm glows emanating from behind the drawn curtains of many a front room.

Having said precious little since his unceremonious turfing-out, Fred was beginning to wonder if the lithe, slightly-shivering constable sitting beside him was sulking, or at least wrestling internally with himself, over the burden of having to leave his pretty – and presumably _unclothed_ – friend alone in his flat while he went out to look at a corpse. Giving the lad fair time to acclimatise to his lot, Fred eventually sought to break the chilly mood inside the car, see what the lad had to say for himself.

“You feeling any better this evening, then?” he offered evenly.

“ _Mmm_?” hummed Morse idly, resurfacing reluctantly from his deep thoughts, dragging his down-turned eyes from his window. “Oh, yes. Much better, sir.”

“You still got those stitches bandaged, I take it?” Fred enquired, flicking his gaze briefly to the younger man to catch his reaction, seeing an involuntary wince snag the corner of Morse's mouth.

“The doctor said to let them breath in the evenings,” Morse replied thinly, ghosting the side of his torso where he'd been injured unconsciously with his fingertips. He was predictably little-interested in discussing such "trivial" minutiae. “I've got a few more dressings to use when I come back to work.”

“Speaking of work,” said Fred, “both the station and I tried to call your telephone earlier, but it was off the hook.”

“Oh, yes... I had a quick look at it before I came out,” said Morse. “I think the cord was accidentally pulled away from the socket in the wall when I— when...”

“Spare me the sordid details, constable,” Fred retorted, causing Morse to whip his head around sharply in surprise. “I saw that you had company with you tonight. Look, I know how it is when you just want a bit of piece and quiet for a couple of hours, but when you're on call you're on call—”

“No! Sir, you don't understand,” pleaded Morse, becoming suddenly more animated than Fred had seen him all evening. “The cable really _was_ accidentally pulled out of the socket. It connects into the wall right down near the floor, practically inviting people to knock it with their feet as they pass it—”

“You mean to tell me either you or your young lady-friend _accidentally_ nudged your telephone cable and neither of you noticed it come out of the wall?” Fred surmised flatly, narrowing his eyes and arching his brow a little as he gave the constable a side-long glare.

“Well,” offered Morse, his hand coming up once again to run a familiar finger inside his collar. “I—We may, perhaps, have been a little... otherwise occupied... to notice it at the time... sir...”

Fred could feel his right eyebrow arch right up to its fullest extent as he looked over again at Morse – a muscle movement that had been honed over many _long_ years in the Thursday residence. His children had well-learned the power of the gesture during their youth and developed finely-tuned methods to extricate themselves from its appearance over the years by becoming better at hiding their numerous little indiscretions from him. Judging from how Morse's already ashen face practically drained of all colour under the same look after falling into same simple little trap of divulging too much too soon, Fred could tell that it still had power.

_Good to know._

“Just make sure it doesn't happen again,” was all that Fred eventually offered in reply.

“It won't, sir. Promise.”

The next few miles went by in near silence as the jaguar weaved its way through the last suburban streets and joined the single road that ran out to towards the far edges of the city. Fred chanced a small glance over to his bagman once or twice, catching wind of the fact that Morse was indeed rather tired – and with fair reason, Fred thought back with a reverberant wince. There was a faint smell of whisky and women's perfume coming off the constable, not to mention the more _earthy_ aroma that came with the territory when participating in extra-curricular activities after dark. Fred wondered idly what the young lady was like, and how Morse had left it. He hadn't seen any other cars in Morse's road when he'd parked up, suggesting that the woman, wherever she might have come from, had perhaps been intending to stay the whole night, which Fred supposed was better than any number of other alternatives.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the car Morse struggled to keep his eyes open as the jag rocked to-and-fro gently, only just managing to stop himself from nodding off several times. He was sat awkwardly in his seat, almost crumpled in on himself, favouring his injured side slightly, clearly wincing a couple of times when the car ran over a bump in the road. Fred wondered if Morse had taken any pain medication before coming out, guessing that, after his recent _exertions_ , the young constable was probably feeling rather tender.

“She new, then, your lady-friend?” Fred eventually asked, breaking the silence with a more considerate version of his usually deep, commanding voice.

“ _Err_ , yes, well, sort of...” replied Morse. “She lives on top of me— in the flat _above_ me, I mean...”

Fred swallowed down a small smirk at the man's unintended double-ententre. Morse's mind was also still somewhat “fatigued”, he guessed, given the young man's usually more erudite way with words.

“Sounds... convenient,” he offered flatly.

“It wasn't like that,” Morse returned defensively with a small sneer, raising a hand to try and rub the oncoming sleepiness out of his eyes. “We use the same laundromat.”

“Your eyes met over a box of sunlite flakes, did they?” Fred teased with a straight face, though he refrained from pushing the lad any further. What Morse got up to in his own time was his own business.

“Something like that,” Morse drawled humourlessly in reply, before submitting to the urge to crack a small yawn. “She—well, she's been bringing me food for the past couple of days. Said she read about how I got hurt in the paper and wanted to thank me for being one of the team that got Radcliffe off the streets...”

Fred could easily believe the explanation, having seen Morse go the same route with several of his other girlfriends. It never ceased to amaze him how the lad always seemed to land on his feet, attracting the sort of women who wanted to mother him and make sure he was properly fed and watered. Fred guessed that Morse's rakish – if invariably rather scruffy – looks also played their part, though again he couldn't quite tell if it was just the fact that Morse looked forever like a lost school boy which enticed these women into his sphere. To make matters more complex, Fred had even seen the beginnings of the same type of urge in his Joan when she and Morse were in close proximity to each other, his daughter having clearly inherited the natural protecting instincts of her mother. As long as Morse treated his daughter with the respect she was due, Fred wouldn't hold it against them if they ever did get together in the future – so long as they chose wisely when it came to naming any future grandkids, that is. There are only a few people that can adequately bear the mantle of something as weighted as _Endeavour_ , after all, as Morse himself painfully knew.

“Sir, this body,” Morse then enquired. “Do we know if it's connected at all with the Richards gang? A straggler, perhaps? Or someone that stumbled across their path?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Fred replied. “Uniform say its a female, early twenties. Doubt we'll know much more until its been examined.”

Morse paused in giving a reply for a few moments, his mouth looking like it held a question that he didn't really want to ask. “It wouldn't be connected with the other Radcliffe murders, surely?” he eventually voiced, his face once again notably turning a few shades paler even in the shadows.

“Hard to say,” Fred offered calmly. “We were pretty sure we uncovered the full extent of his activities whilst you were... well, whilst you were recovering in hospital.”

“ _Hmm_...” Morse hummed, his expression shifting to one that made him look ten years older than he was as he seemingly delved back into the darker recesses of his mind.

Fred's eye darted sidewards briefly. “Look, we've still got a bit of a drive ahead of us,” he said. “Probably best you try and get a few minutes of shut-eye. I need you sharp when we get there.”

“I'm fine, sir.”

“That's an order, Morse,” Fred countered. “It's bad enough we're gonna be last to arrive. I don't want you nodding-off over the corpse whilst DeBryn gives us his assessment. It'll give him a complex.”

Having little energy left in him to argue, Morse did as instructed and hunkered down, crossing his arms protectively over himself as he nestled his head between his seat and the window. After less than a minute, Fred heard the tell-tale change in Morse's breathing which told him that the lad was finally out, allowing a tiny hint of a smile to curl the corner of his mouth as he looked over at the sleeping man. He was glad Morse was able to get a bit of kip _before_ he had to be confronted with yet another dead body, realising that the fresh memory of the evening's last couple of hours were probably helping the lad to relax more than he would otherwise of done on any regular night.

“The relative importance of things,” Fred murmured softly to himself, forgetting where he'd heard or read the words in the past.

Not to worry – he could always ask Morse later.


End file.
